The Ones we’re Given
Fourteen minutes after the oven’s alarm turned off Sam heard three sharp knocks at the front door. Thunderous thuds on the heavy wood door were the calling card. Union knocks. A laborer’s pound echoed throughout the basementless cottage. Local union 347 had been the brotherhood since 1976. After Vietnam. Before Sam’s birth.
“Its only 3 o’clock,” he said to himself. “He isn’t supposed to be here until 5. Shit, he’s probably been drinking since dawn.”
The knocks on the front door transmuted from an antsy banging to an authoritative walloping within half a minute. That was the Marine in him. Two tours equaled a fake leg and the mentality of a Gila monster. Patriotism and poison flowing inside him. Swished on the rocks and cold on the teeth; warm venom in his body’s configuration.
“You better not be sleeping, boy! Working men, real men, don’t sleep in!” his father yelled into the front door. His voice was so strong it seemed to tear through the wood door. It could have punctured a child’s eardrum. “You didn’t learn that shit from me. Now open up the door so I can start making my stew and mixing drinks.”
“What the fuck, I am working,” he said. His father did not hear him. Sam made sure of that. He put down the mixing paddle on a paper towel and wiped his hands on his pants. I should get multiple pairs of plastic pants, he thought.
His father had driven up to Lydick from Kokomo for his birthday. They had planned on spending the weekend together. Sam’s boss was going to let them use his
cottage on Chain-O’ Lakes in the Northern Indiana town. This opportunity also allowed them permission to party on the pontoon boat, take advantage of a 16’ fishing boat with a
Johnson trolling motor for trout, bass, sunfish, bluegill, and perch, access to over forty fishing poles (even ones for ice fishing), a 20’ pier that was shaped like a “L” and had a comfortable bench with a brilliant view of drunken sunrises, a garage with two mopeds and a fridge full of beer, a satellite dish that needed some branches trimmed out of its way, a fireplace, horseshoe pit and nicely painted shoes for the different teams (black and red), and other enjoyable amenities throughout the property.
He remembered his dad saying, “What, no jet skies?”
These novelties had always been at Sam’s disposal, but he’d never really thought about taking advantage of them before this weekend. He knew it was something his father would love and respect. Possibly transform their own relationship into something more than biological. An honest-to-god manifestation into reality from daydream darkness. It had to be more than a load of sperm breaking through a barrier and creating a foul-mouthed purveyor of irrationality, one who cries during soup commercials. You know, the ones for Chunky with football player’s “mothers” serving up hearty soup to professionals in the locker-room. The commercials are supposed to make us feel comforted by their soup because a “mom” is serving it steaming hot, home style, as only a mother could. Sam never knew his mom, or hell, his dad for that matter. The two of them survived the falling rocks in Tennessee, on their way to Disney World, but his mother was crushed instantly. Her head was left mushy like an old gourd rotting in the last of October heat.
Two more pummeling fists struck the door. “Come on, boy! You better get your ass up!”
Sam opened the door. His father’s eyes were slightly bloodshot. His navy blue polo shirt was wrinkled and he carried a box in his right hand. The box was cardboard and large. It was labeled “eggs.” It contained two half-gallons of Beefeater gin, three two-liters of tonic, homemade moonshine, limes, potatoes, carrots, celery, corn, green beans, beef, and a 40oz of Natural Light for the morning’s fishing attempt.
His dad’s left shoe was untied. The previously white lace meander through some leafs and stones on the sunken cement porch. It reminded Sammy of the time he found a dead garter snake bleached and dried from the summer sun. It crumpled under his tennis shoe when he stepped on it like crunching snow in the frozen morning. The sounds that are made walking to the bus stop at 6:45 am.
“Well, what took ya so long, son?” His dad pushed passed him and headed for the kitchen. The box brushed against Sam’s shoulder and snagged part of his sweater. “What, were you out partying or something last night?” his dad said. “Probably chasing loose skirt or some other waste of time.”
“Well, actually, I’ve been up since eleven preparing and cooking the food for dinner.”
“Well, why didn’t ya yell or something. Hell, instead you’ve got me makin’ a scene out in the front yard. We may have to see these people all weekend. Have a little respect.”
This response didn’t surprise Sam. “It’ll be fine,” he said. “Most of them are out on the lake or in town loading up for the weekend, or down at the 19th Hole drinking and eating.”
“What the hell is that?”
“It’s a bar and grill that sells ostrich, caribou, venison, buffalo, and seasonal reptile burgers,” Sam said. “They’re pretty cutting edge.”
“Yeah, well, whatever happened to beef and pork? Normal food. Where are the glasses? Knives?”
Sam’s dad searched mercilessly through the cupboards for highballs and the drawers for a sharp knife to cut up limes, vegetables, and meat for his stew. When he found the items he put them onto the counter. Then he marched to the refrigerator and opened the freezer and grabbed a white ice tray, closed the freezer door, and put the tray on the counter next to the other requirements.
“You drinkin’ anything yet, son?”
“No. Not yet. Why?”
“Cause I’m gonna mix us up a couple,” Sam’s dad said. “Gin and tonics first. Then the hard stuff.”
“Hard stuff?”
“Yep. A Marine brother of mine makes up a secret family recipe of moonshine. The goods are raced straight from West Virginia.” Sam’s dad put ice in the glasses. He reached into the box and apprehended the bottle of Beefeater, a two-liter of tonic, and a lime.
“Where’s a cuttin’ board, son?”
Sam walked over to an island that had two drawers and a cupboard on each side. It was made of wood and had a generically patterned Formica top. He cleared a couple of barstools out of the way from the cupboard’s door, opened it, and pulled out a wooden cutting board. He went back to his father and handed it to him.
“Thanks, son. This is manly cutting board. I’m proud of you.” Sam’s dad plunked the board down on the counter next to the ingredients for his special concoctions.
“Lord knows I try,” Sam said.
Sam’s dad put the lime on the board and cut it into eight wedges. He placed one wedge in each glass of ice and the rest of them in a small white bowl. With his right hand he grasped the knife. Chicago Cutlery identified the brand on the wooden handle. It was a gift from Sam’s Aunt Brenda. Twelve very sharp knifes positioned in a cherry stained wooden holder. To the left of the butcher knife was the blade sharpener. It starts off cubed at the base and then like a stalactite it spirals conical into a sharp point. An ice pick to maintain the lancinating power of the blades that assist in the creation of such treasures including sandwiches, vegetable trays, omelettes, seafood/lake food entrées, and much, much more. However, Sam’s Aunt Brenda filed her finger nails with it a few Easters ago.
“Ah, shit!” Sam’s dad said. “I forgot to grab my kettle for the stew out of the trunk. I’ll be right back. You got a hose here?”
“There should be one in the back,” Sam said.
“I’m gonna get the kettle. Will you get the hose ready and I’ll wash it out?”
Sam’s dad went out the front door. How big can the kettle be, Sam thought. He turned down the heat on the stove and went out the back door, towards the lake, to find the hose.
Sam walked around to the side of the cottage. The hose had been left perfectly rolled by his boss on the winder. It was hypnotic the way the sun’s reflection off of the lake hit the center of the coiled hose. Loud, imposing voices killed the trance.
His dad’s vociferation inundated the cul-de-sac. The reverberations were a bona fide pissed off manifesto of masculinity, testosterone, and pride. He could see the neighbor family looking at his father. The husband was a few yards in front of his wife and kids. Sam made his way towards the front yard. He could see his dad banging on his car and yelling loud enough to scare the fish. The man then pointed towards his dad and was saying something.
Jesus, what the fuck now, Sam thought.
He heard his dad say, “Mind your own business, pal. This doesn’t concern you.”
“The hell it doesn’t, buddy. You’re on my friend’s property and he ain’t home,” the neighbor said. “Now, answer my question. Whuddya doin’?”
Sam came around the corner. His dad looked at him and then back to the neighbor.
“You threatenin’me?” Sam’s dad said. “I’m an ex-Marine, goddamn it!
“Are you threatenin’ me? I don’t give two shits who you are,” the neighbor said. “I once ran with the bulls and harpooned a humpback in Inuit country.”
“Whoa, dad! What’s going on?”
“Get back inside, Sam. Dad’s gonna handle this.”
“Handle what?” the neighbor said. He then turned to his wife and told her to take the children inside. She wrangled up her children and went running over towards Sam when her husband starting walking toward Sam’s dad. “You’ve got to do something,” she said to him.
“Come on, these kids shouldn’t be seeing this. I’ve got some cake in the house. We can eat it at the picnic table,” Sam said. “You kids want some Angel food cake?”
The kids cheered and the men started their bout. Maybe they thought that the innocent merriment was the bell to start fighting. A couple of weak punches were thrown. Even less landed. It didn’t take long for them to end up on the ground. Even in their anger, one could hear faint juvenile giggles. The heavy-breathed sonance was reminiscent of children or puppies. It flooded the lakeside.
The neighbor’s wife escorted her two children to the table and got them situated. Sam brushed his hair with his fingers and then brought out the cake, spatula, paper plates, and a box of plastic utensils. The kids were salivating for cake; their mom wanted to eat it too. Much more than cake.
The two men, husbands, sons, combatants somersaulted and molested each other. The manliest fondling was on exhibit for their families. Miraculously, not a neighbor in sight. Or the law for that matter. Just loved ones. Insignificant specks of dead skin and hair like the bundles that collect in corners. Behind dressers and wastebaskets; occasionally munching on cake without milk.
The four of them sat at the paint chipped table and savored the cake. Sam and the wife rubbed feet and looked into each other’s eyes while the children, cake falling from their mouths, watched the two men wrestle around on the lawn like flopping fish partying on a Lilly pad.
“Its only 3 o’clock,” he said to himself. “He isn’t supposed to be here until 5. Shit, he’s probably been drinking since dawn.”
The knocks on the front door transmuted from an antsy banging to an authoritative walloping within half a minute. That was the Marine in him. Two tours equaled a fake leg and the mentality of a Gila monster. Patriotism and poison flowing inside him. Swished on the rocks and cold on the teeth; warm venom in his body’s configuration.
“You better not be sleeping, boy! Working men, real men, don’t sleep in!” his father yelled into the front door. His voice was so strong it seemed to tear through the wood door. It could have punctured a child’s eardrum. “You didn’t learn that shit from me. Now open up the door so I can start making my stew and mixing drinks.”
“What the fuck, I am working,” he said. His father did not hear him. Sam made sure of that. He put down the mixing paddle on a paper towel and wiped his hands on his pants. I should get multiple pairs of plastic pants, he thought.
His father had driven up to Lydick from Kokomo for his birthday. They had planned on spending the weekend together. Sam’s boss was going to let them use his
cottage on Chain-O’ Lakes in the Northern Indiana town. This opportunity also allowed them permission to party on the pontoon boat, take advantage of a 16’ fishing boat with a
Johnson trolling motor for trout, bass, sunfish, bluegill, and perch, access to over forty fishing poles (even ones for ice fishing), a 20’ pier that was shaped like a “L” and had a comfortable bench with a brilliant view of drunken sunrises, a garage with two mopeds and a fridge full of beer, a satellite dish that needed some branches trimmed out of its way, a fireplace, horseshoe pit and nicely painted shoes for the different teams (black and red), and other enjoyable amenities throughout the property.
He remembered his dad saying, “What, no jet skies?”
These novelties had always been at Sam’s disposal, but he’d never really thought about taking advantage of them before this weekend. He knew it was something his father would love and respect. Possibly transform their own relationship into something more than biological. An honest-to-god manifestation into reality from daydream darkness. It had to be more than a load of sperm breaking through a barrier and creating a foul-mouthed purveyor of irrationality, one who cries during soup commercials. You know, the ones for Chunky with football player’s “mothers” serving up hearty soup to professionals in the locker-room. The commercials are supposed to make us feel comforted by their soup because a “mom” is serving it steaming hot, home style, as only a mother could. Sam never knew his mom, or hell, his dad for that matter. The two of them survived the falling rocks in Tennessee, on their way to Disney World, but his mother was crushed instantly. Her head was left mushy like an old gourd rotting in the last of October heat.
Two more pummeling fists struck the door. “Come on, boy! You better get your ass up!”
Sam opened the door. His father’s eyes were slightly bloodshot. His navy blue polo shirt was wrinkled and he carried a box in his right hand. The box was cardboard and large. It was labeled “eggs.” It contained two half-gallons of Beefeater gin, three two-liters of tonic, homemade moonshine, limes, potatoes, carrots, celery, corn, green beans, beef, and a 40oz of Natural Light for the morning’s fishing attempt.
His dad’s left shoe was untied. The previously white lace meander through some leafs and stones on the sunken cement porch. It reminded Sammy of the time he found a dead garter snake bleached and dried from the summer sun. It crumpled under his tennis shoe when he stepped on it like crunching snow in the frozen morning. The sounds that are made walking to the bus stop at 6:45 am.
“Well, what took ya so long, son?” His dad pushed passed him and headed for the kitchen. The box brushed against Sam’s shoulder and snagged part of his sweater. “What, were you out partying or something last night?” his dad said. “Probably chasing loose skirt or some other waste of time.”
“Well, actually, I’ve been up since eleven preparing and cooking the food for dinner.”
“Well, why didn’t ya yell or something. Hell, instead you’ve got me makin’ a scene out in the front yard. We may have to see these people all weekend. Have a little respect.”
This response didn’t surprise Sam. “It’ll be fine,” he said. “Most of them are out on the lake or in town loading up for the weekend, or down at the 19th Hole drinking and eating.”
“What the hell is that?”
“It’s a bar and grill that sells ostrich, caribou, venison, buffalo, and seasonal reptile burgers,” Sam said. “They’re pretty cutting edge.”
“Yeah, well, whatever happened to beef and pork? Normal food. Where are the glasses? Knives?”
Sam’s dad searched mercilessly through the cupboards for highballs and the drawers for a sharp knife to cut up limes, vegetables, and meat for his stew. When he found the items he put them onto the counter. Then he marched to the refrigerator and opened the freezer and grabbed a white ice tray, closed the freezer door, and put the tray on the counter next to the other requirements.
“You drinkin’ anything yet, son?”
“No. Not yet. Why?”
“Cause I’m gonna mix us up a couple,” Sam’s dad said. “Gin and tonics first. Then the hard stuff.”
“Hard stuff?”
“Yep. A Marine brother of mine makes up a secret family recipe of moonshine. The goods are raced straight from West Virginia.” Sam’s dad put ice in the glasses. He reached into the box and apprehended the bottle of Beefeater, a two-liter of tonic, and a lime.
“Where’s a cuttin’ board, son?”
Sam walked over to an island that had two drawers and a cupboard on each side. It was made of wood and had a generically patterned Formica top. He cleared a couple of barstools out of the way from the cupboard’s door, opened it, and pulled out a wooden cutting board. He went back to his father and handed it to him.
“Thanks, son. This is manly cutting board. I’m proud of you.” Sam’s dad plunked the board down on the counter next to the ingredients for his special concoctions.
“Lord knows I try,” Sam said.
Sam’s dad put the lime on the board and cut it into eight wedges. He placed one wedge in each glass of ice and the rest of them in a small white bowl. With his right hand he grasped the knife. Chicago Cutlery identified the brand on the wooden handle. It was a gift from Sam’s Aunt Brenda. Twelve very sharp knifes positioned in a cherry stained wooden holder. To the left of the butcher knife was the blade sharpener. It starts off cubed at the base and then like a stalactite it spirals conical into a sharp point. An ice pick to maintain the lancinating power of the blades that assist in the creation of such treasures including sandwiches, vegetable trays, omelettes, seafood/lake food entrées, and much, much more. However, Sam’s Aunt Brenda filed her finger nails with it a few Easters ago.
“Ah, shit!” Sam’s dad said. “I forgot to grab my kettle for the stew out of the trunk. I’ll be right back. You got a hose here?”
“There should be one in the back,” Sam said.
“I’m gonna get the kettle. Will you get the hose ready and I’ll wash it out?”
Sam’s dad went out the front door. How big can the kettle be, Sam thought. He turned down the heat on the stove and went out the back door, towards the lake, to find the hose.
Sam walked around to the side of the cottage. The hose had been left perfectly rolled by his boss on the winder. It was hypnotic the way the sun’s reflection off of the lake hit the center of the coiled hose. Loud, imposing voices killed the trance.
His dad’s vociferation inundated the cul-de-sac. The reverberations were a bona fide pissed off manifesto of masculinity, testosterone, and pride. He could see the neighbor family looking at his father. The husband was a few yards in front of his wife and kids. Sam made his way towards the front yard. He could see his dad banging on his car and yelling loud enough to scare the fish. The man then pointed towards his dad and was saying something.
Jesus, what the fuck now, Sam thought.
He heard his dad say, “Mind your own business, pal. This doesn’t concern you.”
“The hell it doesn’t, buddy. You’re on my friend’s property and he ain’t home,” the neighbor said. “Now, answer my question. Whuddya doin’?”
Sam came around the corner. His dad looked at him and then back to the neighbor.
“You threatenin’me?” Sam’s dad said. “I’m an ex-Marine, goddamn it!
“Are you threatenin’ me? I don’t give two shits who you are,” the neighbor said. “I once ran with the bulls and harpooned a humpback in Inuit country.”
“Whoa, dad! What’s going on?”
“Get back inside, Sam. Dad’s gonna handle this.”
“Handle what?” the neighbor said. He then turned to his wife and told her to take the children inside. She wrangled up her children and went running over towards Sam when her husband starting walking toward Sam’s dad. “You’ve got to do something,” she said to him.
“Come on, these kids shouldn’t be seeing this. I’ve got some cake in the house. We can eat it at the picnic table,” Sam said. “You kids want some Angel food cake?”
The kids cheered and the men started their bout. Maybe they thought that the innocent merriment was the bell to start fighting. A couple of weak punches were thrown. Even less landed. It didn’t take long for them to end up on the ground. Even in their anger, one could hear faint juvenile giggles. The heavy-breathed sonance was reminiscent of children or puppies. It flooded the lakeside.
The neighbor’s wife escorted her two children to the table and got them situated. Sam brushed his hair with his fingers and then brought out the cake, spatula, paper plates, and a box of plastic utensils. The kids were salivating for cake; their mom wanted to eat it too. Much more than cake.
The two men, husbands, sons, combatants somersaulted and molested each other. The manliest fondling was on exhibit for their families. Miraculously, not a neighbor in sight. Or the law for that matter. Just loved ones. Insignificant specks of dead skin and hair like the bundles that collect in corners. Behind dressers and wastebaskets; occasionally munching on cake without milk.
The four of them sat at the paint chipped table and savored the cake. Sam and the wife rubbed feet and looked into each other’s eyes while the children, cake falling from their mouths, watched the two men wrestle around on the lawn like flopping fish partying on a Lilly pad.
posted by Neil Kelly at 1:24 PM
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